


Untitled H/S

by riverbanks



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Blue Hawke, Drabble, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:49:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5671507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbanks/pseuds/riverbanks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s Bethany who mentions, one day, that Rowan and Carver were at Ostagar too.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled H/S

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is also [on my tumblr](http://riverbanks.tumblr.com/post/132868833910).

It’s Bethany who mentions, one day, that Rowan and Carver were at Ostagar too. Hawke, herself, never talks about it. But thinking back on Bethany’s small, off-hand note, Sebastian suddenly understands why Hawke reacts the way she does to stories about their expedition in the Deep Roads - the others joke and laugh about the darkspawn, about Anders’ Warden senses and what a terrible headache they were down there, surrounded by the beasts from every side; but Hawke is always oddly silent and distracted these nights, her head anywhere but there with them. 

Sebastian’s heard two versions of the story before: the one the bards sing about at the market square, the tale of the mighty Hero of Ferelden escaping Ostagar on the wings of a dragon; and the one the anonymous voices of veterans and refugees whisper to him in confessionary, the one with the monsters, the corruption in their twisted faces, the severed limbs, the heads of friends and family and comrades split in half by grotesque makeshift axes, the dark magic burning flesh from bone, and the fire and all the blood. There’s always so much blood. He imagines this is the tale Hawke knows, too.

In this version of the story, the Wardens aren’t mighty. They aren’t glorious heroes of legend, they’re painfully mortal and fragile, and they bleed and die like everyone else. Sebastian has so many questions - how many Wardens were there, were they veterans, how long did they last, did they die with honor, did they help with fallback efforts when the battle was deemed lost or did they fight to their last breath to let the soldiers escape; did Hawke ever see or meet the Hero of Ferelden? But he doesn’t ask. The questions come to tip of his tongue, his old childlike fascination with the Wardens buzzing with more and more curiosity in his head, but all it takes is one look at Hawke -Hawke, who is picking at her nails, chewing on her lip, her eyes glazed and vacant as she stares past her ale as Varric tells another story of ogres and the rotten smell of their breath- and he knows to leave old wounds alone.

Hawke catches him staring at her, trying to read the markings of what looks like a stylized hound on her bare arm. Her eyes follow his, and she laughs under her breath when she realizes just what he’s staring at.

“It’s a mabari,” she mutters, her voice low enough as to not interrupt Varric’s story. Sebastian smiles, nodding his understanding, and her eyes become a certain shade of wistful as she stares at the lines on her arm and traces them with the tip of her finger. “Long story, actually. My brother had one, too.”

Sebastian watches Hawke for a moment, studying the line of her jaw and the way her lips seem to curve into a tiny smile at the mention of her brother, but it’s gone in a second as she continues to trace the designs. Her hound whines beside her, and Sebastian glances around their group - everyone is either too drunk or distracted by Varric’s growing tale and Anders’ interruptions and corrections to see her in this small, intimate moment she’s made for herself at the edge of the table.

With a quiet pull on his chair, Sebastian shifts closer to the table and leans on his elbow, bringing himself closer so his voice carries over to her under the loud rumble of the tavern. “I’d like to hear that story,” he tells her, with that easy smile she always seems to bring to his face, “If you don’t mind.”

Hawke blinks at him, confused at first he thinks, and then back at her arm, touching the tattoo with a look he can’t read. Then her face lights up in a smile, a real one this time, and she looks up at Sebastian with the eyes of a teenager about to tell him of a wicked secret he’s not to share with anyone. He grins back at her and pulls his chair even closer, feeling like a little boy sharing wild stories with a childhood friend, this odd way he’s never felt before - this odd way she always makes him feel.

“Well, first thing you have to know is,” she starts, “This was all Carver’s idea.”


End file.
